#Single Review: Failure

[thejoyofviolentmovement]

New Audio: Booster Club Shares an Anthemic Ode to Failure

New Audio: Booster Club Shares an Anthemic Ode to Failure @heygroover @romainpalmieri @DorianPerron

Raleigh–Durham-based indie outfit Booster Club features a collection of grizzled North Carolina scene vets: Steven Bailey (vocals, guitar), who has had stints with Indiobravo, The Jaded Rakes, Paloma and Waxing Myrna; Alan Levine (bass), who has played with Bob Funck Band, Coytah, and Indiobravo; and Joey Zielazinski (drums), who had had stints with Secretary Pool and The Softeners. Formed back…

[if-only-angels-could-prevail]

it is not easy to try and keep up with the film scene, classical music scene, theatre scene, and nightlife scene, while holding down a job, in chicago, illinois. and yet, i keep trying

[notagarroter]

I posted 2,774 times in 2022

45 posts created (2%)

2,729 posts reblogged (98%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@the-sign-of-tea

@migurin

@thetimemoves

@theleftpill

@lazy-crooked-barbarian

I tagged 646 of my posts in 2022

#dracula - 131 posts

#lol - 21 posts

#my comment - 19 posts

#other people's meta - 17 posts

#ask - 15 posts

#original post - 15 posts

#not sherlock - 8 posts

#lmao - 7 posts

#eurus - 7 posts

#acd - 7 posts

Longest Tag: 131 characters

#it's weirdly comedic to imagine dracula rushing downstairs to grab the laudanum bottle and drug the wine before the maids catch him

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Just binge watched sherlock for the first time and something and came across your blog. In your opinion do you think Sherlock has professional combat training, maybe trained as a professional but decided to opt out of doing it? Or did he learn from experience? Him holding his own against Mary's former partner must say something.

What an excellent question!

I think there are two plausible answers here... One is that Sherlock has a history working for whatever government agency Mycroft is supposed to represent, and got his training that way. Now, Sherlock implies on a few occasions that he refuses to work for Mycroft (like in ASIP and TGG), and sometimes they clearly work at cross purposes (like in HLV). But Mycroft does offer him work in HLV (which Sherlock is forced to accept by the end of the episode), and he probably wouldn't be able to do that if Sherlock didn't have some pre-existing relationship with whatever intelligence agency, along with appropriate training.

The other likely possibility is suggested by the original canon. In Doyle's stories, Holmes tells us that he has studied a martial art called Baritsu -- probably a reference to Bartitsu, a wacky but real fighting method drawing together jujitsu, boxing, and cane fighting, among others. If our Sherlock was engaged in something similar, he might be basically self-taught, or perhaps working with private trainers or sparring partners.

Personally, I think the first option is a bit more likely, but the second is more fun. ;)

Anyone else have different headcanons for where Sherlock got his training?

84 notes - Posted March 10, 2022

#4

This video is giving me so many feeeeeeeeeels

96 notes - Posted April 2, 2022

#3

Re: Dracula

I keep seeing posts here observing that Bram Stoker's original readers would not have been as versed in vampire lore as we moderns are -- vampires would have been a new concept to them, right?

I just want to say, no, not really.

In addition to Carmilla and Polidori's Vampyre, may I introduce into evidence the hugely popular but now largely forgotten Varney the Vampire?

Varney was serialized between 1845-47 as a "penny dreadful" and was basically the Twilight of its day. Even people who didn't read it would have heard about it.

Point being: when Victorian readers read about two pinprick holes in Lucy's throat, they would have known EXACTLY what that meant.

See also

155 notes - Posted August 20, 2022

#2

I'm very sad that my dash doesn't have one single post of Sherlock saying "am I the current king of England?"

I don't have time to make or hunt for gifs! Someone needs to get on this, please.

181 notes - Posted September 10, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

lmao we're in the new yorker for being weird has-beens

Tumblr is something like an Atlantis of social networks. Once prominent, innovative, and shining, on equal footing with any other social-media company, it sank under the waves as it underwent several ownership transfers in the twenty-tens. But it might be rising once more. Tumblr’s very status as a relic of the Internet—easily forgotten, unobtrusively designed, more or less unchanged from a decade ago—is making it appealing to prodigal users as well as new ones.

...

The Tumblr users I spoke to, both new and returning, cited a few unfashionable aspects that keep them using the platform. Tumblr’s main feed doesn’t shuffle posts algorithmically based on what it determines might appeal to a user... Posts appearing in the feed are undated, and many accounts are pseudonymous, creating a respite from the frenetic exposure of other social media. Users spoke of the platform feeling disconnected from the “real world”—no President would ever try to shape world events with a Tumblr post.

...

What makes Tumblr obsolete, for the moment, are the same things that lend it an enduring appeal. The fact that it maintains a following should remind us that we use social-media services by choice; no platform or feature is an inevitability.

400 notes - Posted January 16, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[insertvalidusername]

was about to watch the school for good and evil but a friend was like WAITT there's a book too!! so i read the book and absolutely loved it but then the movie did not

[gbhbl]

Single Slam: Those Damn Crows, Maer, Bonecarver, Pollyanna Blue, Sugar Spine, Circles, Aborted, THECITYISOURS, Skin Failure, Kath & the Kicks and Darkthrone!

Single Slam: Those Damn Crows, Maer, Bonecarver, Pollyanna Blue, Sugar Spine, Circles, Aborted, THECITYISOURS, Skin Failure, Kath & the Kicks and Darkthrone!

This week’s single slam features Those Damn Crows, Maer, Bonecarver, Pollyanna Blue, Circles, Aborted, THECITYISOURS, Skin Failure, Kath & the Kicks and Darkthrone. You can read our thoughts about the latest singles from these bands below. Those Damn Crows – Man on Fire Unstoppable rock juggernauts Those Damn Crows kick-off pre-sales for their newly announced UK headline tour by unveiling a…

[wndrhyuka]

after the exam.

the first part. sfw suggestive. prof!mingyu. not proofread. wc 2.7k

good evening, y/n,

midterm grades were just posted, which i hope you've had the chance to look at. much to my surprise, it did not go well. the class average was just that. average. but your score in particular was lower than i had expected.

as you know, my office hours run from 3-4pm on MWF. we can review any material that might’ve challenged you. i’ll have a copy of the exam on hand if and when you come by.

i’d like to see you succeed in this course before the semester ends, and to better prepare you for any courses to follow this one.

best,

kim mingyu.

"fuck." you sighed aloud to yourself. checking your emails before going to sleep was now a decision you had come to regret.

you sat on your uncomfortable bed in your dorm, legs crossed with your laptop on your thighs. blindingly bright screen displaying text that twisted your stomach. you supposed you deserved this.

before the exam, you promised your professor that you'd "definitely" see him in his office. you mostly said so because you felt confronted, but looking back, you weren't sure why you did that.

no one's office hours worked your your schedule. your mornings throughout the week were filled with back to back lectures and the second you were done with class, you were on the bus to your part-time job at a coffee shop near your university.

you remember chan offering to study with you when you gave him your number, but you figured he also had other exams to cram for and you didn't want to get in the way.

so you studied on your own. youtube videos, practice tests, worksheets, the textbook, your notes, and your returned homework. every single symbol and number seemed to mush together on your paper.

you had seen your score when it was posted, and with all that effort, you earned yourself a 48/100. that score might've made sense if you said fuck it and chose not to try on the exam, but that wasn't what you were trying for at all, and this email in your lap told you that your professor caught onto that too.

you didn't have the guts to respond to him. it reeked of disappointment and you couldn't bear to acknowledge that. you shut your laptop and put it on your desk before going to bed.

the next morning you stood outside your calc lecture, waiting for the students inside to finish up.

"hey," you hear someone approach you. it was chan. he stands beside you against the wall of the corridor.

"hey." you can't help the smile that grows on your lips.

"so... did you check your score for the midterm?"

your shoulders drop and you roll your eyes, "wish i didn't."

"i probably got a lower score than you." he replies.

"what'd you get?" your voice reeked of doubt.

"64."

you scoff and turn away from him, arms crossed against your chest, "you're such an ass."

"what?!" he laughs, leaning closer to you when you move away, "there's no way you got less than me. i couldn't answer half of those questions."

"keep rubbing it in, chan. it feels great," you can't help but laugh at your failure, though laughing about it did cheer you up, especially with chan.

"you gonna tell me your score?" chan continues to tease you as students flood the hallways, leaving their lectures.

"never." you wince and hide your face in your hands.

"oh, come onnn. i wanna know." he nudges your shoulder with his.

you shake your head behind your hands, hiding your giddy smile and feeling the heat emitting from your cheeks on your palms. probably from the embarrassment, or maybe because you liked chan.

"class is starting, you two." you hear a stern voice ahead of you.

dropping your hands, you lift your head to see who it was.

your professor. he eyes you both through his glasses, holding his bag in hand before entering the classroom and letting the door close behind him.

when the door shuts, you're left in the silence of the now empty hallway rendered speechless as you and chan turned to each other, sharing confused expressions.

looking back through the slim window of the door, you could see your professor setting his bag down on the desk in the corner, pulling out a stack of papers.

you sigh, somehow feeling defeated. "did we do something wrong?" you whisper to chan. the first time you'd been scolded was understandable, but you weren't sure you deserved his abruptness this time.

chan looks at his phone and checks the time. "we still have 5 minutes 'til he's supposed to start class." he scoffs as puts his phone back in his pocket, "c'mon."

he walks forward and opens the door to the class. you head inside, walking between the rows of students to find your usual seat. chan takes a seat next to you while you unpack.

"morning, everyone." mingyu speaks at the front of the class, “i posted the grades to your midterm yesterday afternoon. if you haven't seen them yet, you can look in your online gradebook." moody groans and whispers cast a blanket over the students as he makes his way toward his desk, picking up a large stack of papers.

"i'll pass them back now." he begins walking around the class, calling out names, finding the student, then returning their test. “i made some notes on your work. please read them. it might help you understand any mistakes you made.”

"chan." he calls. chan raises his hand.

when he places the exam on chan's desk, you peek over at it. as expected, "64/100" was written largely in red pen on the first page. chan scooted it over to you, allowing you to look at it.

your lips straightened into a line as you picked it up, already feeling dissatisfied with yourself. you flipped through the pages to find the questions you knew you got wrong. when you analyzed his work, it all made sense. he made it seem so much simpler than you thought it was.

"y/n." you hear you professor call from behind you. turning around in your chair, you raise your hand and see him make his way over.

as he drew nearer, you felt your heart beating faster in your chest. maybe you were anxious because you stood him up last week. or maybe it was because he had been curt with you and chan. even if neither were the case, there was still one fundamental cause for your unease. you found him incredibly attractive.

he looms over your left shoulder and sets your exam down, large build positioned behind you so closely that you felt the heat of his body on your back. the warm and woodsy scent of him filling your nose and threatening an upward curl at the corner of your lips. you bite down on them and attempt to shake your head out of the gutter while focusing on your breathing.

after handing back your exam, he bends down from his upright stance, "see me after class, please."

your breathing comes to an abrupt stop as the pressure of your teeth in your bottom lip increases tenfold. his voice was smooth as velvet. speaking just above a whisper, you felt chills run down your spine as his words reached your ears. the aroma falling from him wouldn’t help either. his cologne was intoxicating at this proximity. it made you dizzy, and you felt your eyelids become heavy for a moment.

before you can even exhale to respond, he walks away and returns to the front of the class. you turn toward chan to see if he caught that, but he was sitting with eyes glued to his phone in his lap. you thought about telling him what happened until you were interrupted.

"alright. let's get started." his voice commands the attention of the room. chan puts his phone away.

you look toward your professor who begins writing on the board. everyone around you picks up their pencils and begins taking note of his work, but you were frozen.

your mind was occupied. you were looking at the board but nothing was registering. focusing on the lesson seemed impossible after hearing his voice in your ear like that. you felt terrified, flustered, and some third emotion that you couldn't quite name, though it seemed to be the strongest.

the hour long lecture carries out, and you couldn't concentrate for one second. chan noticed your pencil clutched in your hand, but the page of your notebook empty.

"y/n," he whispers.

you jolt, waking from your trance, and face him.

"are you okay?" he quietly asks.

you smile and nod, chuckling awkwardly before slowly turning your head down towards your notebook. you rest the tip of your pencil against your notebook, but write nothing as your subconscious resumed its hold on you.

you sat there for the remainder of the period with your back straight, but your eyes slightly downward towards your notebook, more than distracted with several thoughts running through your head.

what would he say? would he shame your score? would he confront you about standing him up? did he ask anyone else to stay back? would he be passive aggressive like he had been with you and chan? the questions clouded every corner of your brain.

you were awoken again by the sudden rustling of papers and backpacks zipping around you, including chan's.

"y/n, are you sure you're okay?" he asks again, "you didn't write anything down."

"oh, yeah. i just..." you stare blankly at him. he stares back with concern in his brow. "i didn't feel like it today, i guess." you blurt.

"alright," he stands and swings his bag around his shoulder, "i have to head to my next class, but i'll see you here monday?"

"yeah!" you beam, trying not to cause worry.

"later," he smiles. adjusting his bag, he then makes his way to the door.

"wait, chan!" you exclaim.

he stops and turns around quickly with a quirked brow.

"could you, um, send me a picture of your notes, please?" you ask sheepishly.

he giggles, "sure thing. i'll text you tonight." he says with a cheeky smile before leaving.

after he's gone, you sigh deeply. looking around, you notice everyone had left the class. your professor remained at the board, erasing the board clean.

you put your things away and pick up your bag, cautiously walking up to him.

as you moved closer, you could spot what your eyes always used to fall on. his body. the muscles that never failed to peek through the cotton button ups he wore. biceps flexed while he swiped the eraser across the board. back muscles engaged as the words on the board disappeared.

"y/n." he utters, still facing the board.

your eyes widen, realizing you'd been standing behind him silently for a bit. he puts the eraser down, board now clear.

"thanks for seeing me." he looks downward to meet your gaze. "i just have a few things to ask you." he walks over to his desk to lean against it, looking all too familiar to the last time you were stuck with him after lecture.

you don't move in closer, only turning on your heels to face him. "yes?" your voice emits a much higher pitched reply than you wanted.

"did you get my email last night?" he asks, folding his arms against his chest.

"i did, yes."

"and you didn't reply?" he asks soberly.

shit.

"oh. well, i m-meant to. i should've. it was just... it was really late and-"

he chuckles outwardly at you, halting your nervous blabbering before it inevitably got worse. you turn your chin away from him, confused at his behavior.

"i'm just teasing you," he huffs after his laugh, "that's actually why i wanted to see you today."

you resist rolling your eyes and instead wear a smile. "i'm sorry, professor. i did intend to reply."

"don't worry about it. although, you might be worried about other things." he looks down and raises the knuckle of his finger up to his glasses and straightens them on to sit higher on his nose bridge, "your exam." you wanted to scream when he said the words. "was that the score you wanted?"

you chuckled so you wouldn't cry, "no, sir, not at all. i-i'm not sure what happened with me." you avoid his eyes.

"an issue with you?" he tilts his head slightly. "what makes you say that?"

"i don't know," you sigh, "i guess i was just extremely unprepared for this test."

"mm," he hums. "is that the score you think you deserved?"

you furrow your brows at that. "since when are exams graded on what the student deserves?" you scoff, "i don't think that really matters..."

"i do." he quickly comments. it almost sounded like he was challenging your sentiment, but you had nothing to say in return.

"let me ask you this, y/n. did you ever plan on coming to my office hours the week before the exam? you did ask me when they were."

there it was.

it felt like he had you in the jaws of a trap. though, you expected him to mention this at some point.

"i did want to see you, professor, but your hours didn't work with my schedule." you explained rather urgently.

his eyes dart down for a moment to think, "what about the TA's?"

"his don't work for me either." you answered, nervously chewing on the inside of your cheek watching his face react to your excuses.

he sat there silently for a moment, rubbing his bottom lip with his thumb, appearing in deep thought. you didn't know what to do with yourself.

"the learning assistants for calc have limited hours too. i have back to back classes in the morning and i have work in the afternoons." you offer more excuses to fill the uneasy silence.

he meets your eyes again. "when do you get off?"

"sorry?"

"of work. when do you leave work?" he doubles down on his question.

"it depends?" you reply hesitantly. "if i'm lucky, i'll be done around 5pm. but i don't usually have much luck."

"i see," he murmurs as he looks into your eyes for a moment. "one more question for you."

you perk up to make yourself open to his question.

he straightens his posture against his desk and uncrosses his arms. "if you were presented with an opportunity to get the exam score you deserve, would you take it?"

your head tilts back slightly. "o-of course," you respond. you understood what he was saying but you couldn't help the confusion his statement brought. "i just wouldn't be sure why i deserved to be offered that opportunity, i guess." you chuckle.

"so that's a yes?" he presses.

"...yes." you pause. his ambiguity made you nervous to agree.

he got off his desk and was now standing in front of you. your eyes followed his as they rose far above your line of sight. "i know you're a smart girl, y/n. you just can't access the help you need. so i'd like to offer my help."

"that's very kind of you, professor, but i can't make it to your office hours or-"

"i want to reschedule them to a time that'll work for you." he cuts you off.

your words were caught in your throat again.

"you said you get off at 5?" he continues.

"i..." his assuredness threw you off. "it depends, sir." you spoke slowly. you wanted to answer him properly but you were too confounded with his overly polite suggestion. "sometimes i leave around 7, but i have no control over when my shift ends." just thinking about it all while he was so close to you made you stressed.

"if you were able to communicate with me exactly when your shift ends, i'd be happy to work around your availability to help you with this class."

"what do you... mean?" with mingyu looming over you, it was difficult to process what he was saying. even more so because his cologne was engulfing you in its cloud yet again.

"tell me when you're done with work and i can arrange to meet with you. does that sound good?"

"y-yes, but... how will i tell you?" you mumble, eyes blinking heavier than before.

"you're no good at responding to emails, are you?" he smiles playfully, "how about i give you my number instead."

[exhaslo]

Corruption

(Villain!Miguel x F!Hero!Reader)

Warning: Minors DNI, smut, mentions of sex, violence, blood, murder, twisted thoughts, experimentation, language, wannabe fluff, established friendship?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Five months before D-Day

It was quiet. Something nearly unheard of in the city of Nueva York. Not even a whoosh of wind or a click of a heel could bring noise to this silent room. Especially not after the vulture of the lab had demanded everyone's silence.

You sat in the corner of the lab, quietly tapping against your tablet. You could not even hear another's breathing. That is how powerful the lead of this lab was when he demanded silence. That was how powerful-

"Miguel?" You whispered lowly.

Miguel O'Hara, otherwise known as Mike, due to his father's pestering nicknaming. Miguel O'Hara was the son of Alchemax's CEO, Tyler Stone, and the smartest scientist in the corporation. He was a man of power, and a man to be feared.

"This better be good, (Y/N)" He said with a hiss.

Oh, how you loved it when your name rolled off his tongue. If only he would have said it a little nicer. You raised your head from your tablet, looking ahead at the scene before you. A man, strapped onto a metal table with lights and strange liquid being entered into his blood. A twisted science experiment that never ended well.

Sometimes you questioned your job. You questioned how you found yourself seated as a secretary, recording each horrible experiment Miguel did. This was not for the faint of heart. You started working for Alchemax about two years ago thanks to a friend who helped you out of college.

You met Miguel a year ago, when you were assigned to be his personal assistant. Since, apparently, everyone else refused to take the job. Once you did your first report with him, you immediately found out why, but that wasn't going to stop you.

"According to my report, the subject purposely ate a peach before agreeing to this test." You explained.

"So?"

"So, the patient is allergic to peaches and is about to go into shock in a matter of minutes now." You huffed.

"Shouldn't affect the procedure."

Oh, how sometimes you wished you could enter Miguel's head and wonder what sick and twisted mind worked in there. Miguel was fascinated with genetic splicing. He always had a new test subject on his table once a week. He wanted to learn how to manipulate their DNA.

However, each experiment always ended in failure and death. The body count Miguel had was enough to lock him up a hundred times over. The man had not a single shred of humanity in him. It was always about the experiment.

"Begin,"

You rolled your eyes, wishing you could stop all of this. You had begged for a way to find the light in Miguel. How could someone so handsome be so evil? It almost made you sick the amount of times you had wet dreams about your monster of a boss.

"Another failure, sir. Perhaps we made a mistake-"

"I never make mistakes." Miguel hissed as he watched his now deformed monster patient lie dead on his table, "Get him out of my sight! Now!"

Right as you started to fill out your report, you noticed the patient's stomach start to inflate. You furrowed your brows before yelling out to everyone that the body was going to pop.

Your efforts were for not. Within the second, everyone in the room was covering in disgusting blood and body parts. You had wanted to throw up, but you did your best to hold it all in. Miguel was already throwing a fit about his lab being dirty, you didn't want to add to the mess.

----------

Once you were all cleaned, you made your way back to your office. You still had to finish your reports and send them over to Miguel for review. Miguel always demanded perfection. It was amazing how long you even lasted as his assistant. According to everyone, you were the more insane one.

"Oh, Miguel," You muttered, spotting the tall man in your office. Miguel lazily looked at you,

"Took you long enough," He spat. You placed your tablet down,

"Remember that time I told you that being a female requires more shower time?" You said with a smirk. Miguel scoffed as he placed himself onto your work couch, "Not even a smile," You huffed.

"Get working,"

"Yes, yes, oh chosen one." You teased once more.

The only thing that you could collectively agree on was that you were in love with the mad scientist. Giving Miguel a head massage, you stared down at his gorgeous face. You had been working with Miguel for a year. You knew what he liked, what he didn't like and how he worked.

It was safe to say that you were probably the only person in this whole building who understood Miguel. If only he wasn't evil. You would totally asked him out on a date long ago. Each passing day, you hoped that these feelings would go away.

"(Y/N), do my shoulders too," Miguel whispered in a low and sweet voice.

You folded far too easily. Doing what he asked, you knew that Miguel was using you. You had to be blind not to see that, but shit, you couldn't help it. That, and you physically could not quit your job. Both Miguel and his father made sure that no one would quit.

If you'd try, you'd be drugged.

Perhaps one day, you could bring this place to justice. You wanted Miguel to see the error of his ways. If there was any way to change Miguel to see the light, you would. Of course, taking Alchemax down was going to have to be the first step.

But, that was just a fleeting dream.

--------

Miguel inhaled deeply as you worked on his tense muscles. The only thoughts coursing through his mind were his experiments. How they could have been done differently. Perhaps he needed a different breed of test subjects.

"Let's resume our experiments with spiders," Miguel said with a low groan as you pinched just the right spot. He heard your small whine and scoffed, "We do this every other month."

"I know and you still torture me with it!" You cried softly, moving his to hair. Miguel closed his eyes, enjoying the massage,

"And as usual, I let you pick the next creature to study."

"A seahorse?"

Miguel resisted a chuckle since his first thought was getting males pregnant. How amusing that experiment would be, yet also horrifying. If he were to do that, then he would truly live up to his name as a mad scientist.

You had some dumb and ridiculous ideas. You weren't as smart as the rest of them and Miguel liked that. You were good for him to have around. Someone to remind him that there were those who were just dumb naturally. Of course, he could never say that to your face, or you would start crying.

"Like last time," He whispered ever so softly.

"Hm? Are you thinking rude things again?" You asked with a huff, gently pulling against his hair, "I can always stop this."

"But you won't." Miguel hummed and lazily opened his eyes, "Just be ready for tomorrow. I don't want another disappointment."

Getting himself ready to leave, Miguel fixed up his lab coat before giving you one last glance. He knew that you were attractive. Hell, he had to force his ignorant coworkers to get back to work since all they did was talk about wanting to date you.

Perhaps in another universe, where Miguel wasn't obsessed with his experiments, he would date you. Stepping out of your office, Miguel knew full well what he was doing. He got a rise knowing that he was keeping you all to himself.

Call it villainous, but Miguel enjoyed being selfish. That's how he always got what he wanted. Entering his private office, Miguel's eyes sparkled as he saw a case full of spiders.

"I'll make the perfect specimen, this I swear." He said with a wicked smirk.

----------

You squirmed in place, not ready to deal with today's experiment. You hated spiders. You wanted nothing to do with them, but Miguel loved them. He was so fascinated about the great hero age and about Spiderman.

Slowly making your way inside the lab, you gasped as scientists dashed past you. Everyone was running around in a panicked frenzy. Wondering what was happening, you gasped as you saw Miguel shaking with anger.

His spider enclosure was knocked over.

You wanted to jump and scream, but you knew that would only anger Miguel more. Hesitantly, you approached Miguel to try and distract him. As you did so, you felt something bite the back of your neck. You flinched and slapped your neck, praying that it was a mosquito.

You bit your lower lip, spotting a spider and nearly cried. Quickly shaking the foul creature away, you hurried to Miguel's side and gently tugged on his sleeve. Miguel hissed as he turned towards you violently,

"WHY AREN'T Y-Oh, (Y/N)," He growled. You were still biting your lower lip, glancing away from him,

"I know now isn't the best time, but why don't we-"

"Whatever it is, let's go while these fucking IDIOTS find my spiders," Miguel roared in anger.

You just nodded, leading Miguel out of the room as you quietly prayed for your fellow coworkers. Miguel was not going to let them rest until all of his spiders were found...including the one you just murdered.

"Why don't you tell me what you were going to work on while we go to lunch? I think a meal break would help," You suggested, tapping away on your tablet. Miguel stroked his hand through his hair, cussing lowly in Spanish,

"Sounds like a plan."

You smiled as you led Miguel to your lunch destination. You were proud to say that whenever Miguel was going to have a meltdown, you were able to calm him down someway or another. Call it talent, but you loved being reliable.

However, that talent seemed to be failing you now. You couldn't keep focus during lunch and Miguel seemed to be getting annoyed. You weren't sure what was happening to you, but your body felt like it was on fire. Could it have been from the spider bite?

"Sorry, Miguel...I just...need to..." You whispered before collapsing.

-----------

Miguel was growing irritated as he watched you waver in place. You were fine just a moment ago. If there was one thing Miguel hated, it was when someone lost interest in his conversation. This had never happened to you, so why now?

Right as you stood, you immediately came tumbling down. Like instinct, Miguel caught you and noticed that you had a fever. A small scoff escaped his lips as he carried you out of the restaurant and back into his company car.

"Take us to (Y/N)'s apartment. Fool got herself sick,"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Next Chapter

@tojishugetiddies @miguelsfavwife @foulsharkheart @club-danger-zone @ivkygirly @jollystrawberrycycle @amber-content

[elennemigo]

Benedict Cumberbatch´s year in review ✧ 2023.

“Don’t be afraid of failure, that’s only learning, don’t be afraid of being yourself, that’s the single most unique thing you have, and keep trying.”

[laughhardrunfastbekindsblog]

Rex: I know you work with Cody sometimes, but who do you guys report to?

Hunter: Hmm... good question. Can't say I've got an answer.

My headcanons about the reporting:

Tech writes up a full mission report after every single mission the squad completes during the Clone Wars, even though the higher ups stopped asking the squad for detailed written debriefings almost two years ago, after their first few ops.

(Echo started helping to write up the reports when he first joined the squad, only to be absolutely flabbergasted and lowkey horrified that the generals/commanders never ask for the reports, they just want to know whether a mission CF99 was assigned to ended as a success or failure.)

The reason why no one ever asks for the reports is because, after Commander Cody first called in Clone Force 99 for a tricky operation involving rescuing a dozen key hostages from an overwhelming amount of Separatist forces, Obi Wan was the one who reviewed the exceptionally professional and detailed report describing the squad of 4 clones rescuing the hostages by rappelling smack dab into the middle of the enemy forces and wiping out two entire battalions of droids (including the tactical droids) within 30 seconds with a crazy plan involving one bomb (the bomb wasn't even used on the droids themselves, it was used as a distraction), a knife, a rifle, two small mirrors, the Star Wars equivalent of duct tape, and "CT-9903's impulsive nature."

"Cody, are you sure this mission report is... accurate?" Obi Wan asks in concern.

"Yes, General. Three of the hostages corroborated the story even before the report itself came in. And CT-9902 - the one they call Tech, who writes the reports - apparently records everything, too, so I can verify..."

"No need. I ask only because I thought orders were for this to be a stealth operation."

"Right, well, the sergeant said his squad decided the most effective way to fulfill the "stealth" stipulation would be to not leave any droids operational, so the Separatists will never know exactly what happened."

Thus Obi Wan, realizing the sheer madness that would likely ensue should Anakin ever get his hands on one of these full reports - Anakin doesn't need ANY more chaotic ideas or incentive to go rogue - decides to simply record the mission outcome as "all objectives successfully met." The other generals (and, by extension, their commanders) soon pick up on Obi Wan's strategy and adopt it themselves, though for slightly different reasons (because imagine reporting that a squad using a plan called "rockslide" succeeded where a company + Jedi could not).

And so whenever Clone Force 99 is given an assignment, they are only asked in the debriefing whether said mission has been a success or failure.

(And then Cody calls in the Bad Batch for a mission that ends up involving Anakin, and Obi Wan is just sigh "I suppose this was inevitable. Yes of course this mission ended with Trench's entire fleet blowing up. No, Anakin, I will NOT recommend that Clone Force 99 be assigned strictly to the 501st. We're trying to keep the galaxy intact.")

[internetskiff]

I've sometimes seen this sentiment, especially among reviewers, that SOMA's WAU ""monster plot"" contributes nothing to the main game's story, and that the storyline would infact benefit from the WAU's removal. If you ask me, that couldn't be further from the truth. The WAU is at the root of everything. Frankly, it's the main reason the game's moral dilemmas are.. well, dilemmas at all. If the WAU wasn't making monsters, wasn't there to warp the life around Pathos-II as it saw fit, the game wouldn't have even started. Pathos-II would've just remained dormant forever. Simon wouldn't be there, and neither would any of the obstacles he faces on his journey to preserve humanity. The main reason the WAU isn't directly beneficial to Earth is exactly because its understanding of "life" is so skewed. Its not just bringing things back - its bringing them back incorrectly. Every single "monster" we meet builds a case both against and for the WAU's continued existence.

The Construct shows the WAU's failure to understand humanity in the physical sense, shoving a Human brain scan into a misshapen robot body and calling it a day, leaving it to babble to itself as it aimlessly wanders the halls of Upsilon.

The same could be said for Carl Semken and the other Mockingbirds, though to a lesser degree - though capable of speech, they're still very delusional and oftentimes end up going insane. Still, in some ways you see the WAU's understanding of human psychology progress with each new mockingbird - they become increasingly coherent and increasingly sane, Catherine and Robin Bass being great examples. While the Construct has lost so much of itself you can no longer tell who it used to be, the other Mockingbirds have their sense of self intact. With the WAU's unreliable nature cemented, we move on to its attempts at preserving humans physically, with Amy Azarro being the first proper example Simon gets to witness.

She's kept alive in what seems to be a perpetual state of discomfort, and judging by the structure gel slowly overtaking her I believe the WAU may be slowly converting her into one of the Fleshers. Its keeping her alive, yes, but its doing so at any cost necessary - it doesn't matter if she's in constant pain as long as she doesn't flatline. Its treatment of actual organisms is practically an inversion of its treatment of the Mockingbirds - instead of prioritizing the mental wellbeing of the subject, the WAU prioritizes their physical wellbeing with little to no care for the mental state its "patient" is in the entire time.

Fleshers live and breathe, but they seemingly aren't "all there" at all. The lights are on, but no one's home anymore. All they do is wander the ruins of the CURIE and lash out at anyone who enters their territory - the WAU has basically reduced them to animals.

Terry's been driven insane from all the structure gel infesting his insides, and though his goal was "technically" benevolent (putting everyone into a permanent dream state where the WAU could make them live the best possible versions of their lives), he achieved it through incredibly violent means, conducting what was basically an attack on Theta and causing its downfall. So far, its attempts at preserving humans physically have simply resulted in increasingly grotesque and violent monstrosities - but I would argue you see that begin to change when Simon reaches Omicron.

When you reach it, you see the aftermath of a particularly gruesome procedure WAU had carried out - everyone's blackboxes have exploded, turning their heads to mush. We find out that one of the employees, with the help of someone particularly close to the WAU, had figured out how to poison it. They have been receiving "visions" and "messages" from a comatose Johan Ross - the WAU's "AI psychologist", someone it desperately tried to restore from a comatose state by manipulating structure gel with electromagnetic fields. Either the WAU deliberately retaliated when it figured out the poisoning plot, or it had simply overdone it when restoring Johan Ross - sacrificing an entire station's worth of lives to bring someone back. Either way this shows a tremendous amount of intelligence on the WAU's part - and also paints it as either exceptionally cruel or exceptionally empathetic depending on the perspective you view it from. Either it considered Johan so important to it that it was willing to sacrifice most Omicron staff, or it was willing to violently retaliate in order to preserve itself. Either way, Omicron houses what I believe to be a sign of the WAU's steadily improving understanding of humanity - Dr. Johan Ross.

He has been restored with both his physical health and mental faculties (relatively) intact. He isn't violent, and he perfectly understands what condition he is currently in - but despite that he doesn't seem to be physically suffering. He is still driven to eliminate the WAU, but it seems to be less out of personal suffering and more out of fear in regards to the suffering its other creations may go through. I believe he's an example of a semi-perfectly restored human - both him and Simon himself. They're both cases of, as Catherine puts it, "a sound mind in a sound body". But although the signs are there, there is no outright definitive proof that the WAU's creations will only continue to get better.

And that's what makes the game's final moral dilemma so compelling to me. The whole game has been providing us with both evidence and counterevidence towards the WAU's idea of restoring humanity. Now, it's up to you to act as its jury and executioner. By killing it you either stop it from torturing the memory of humanity, or you doom humanity to extinction in all senses of the word. By keeping it alive, you either doom the remnants of humanity to an eternal torturous existence, or you give the WAU a chance at creating something new. There is no way of knowing what choice is correct - because you don't know what the WAU is thinking. You never get to. You don't know its plans, you don't know if it even has the capacity to actually learn from its mistakes, hell, you don't even know if its capable of thought - but here it is. Making things. Terrible things, but there's a chance that it'll only get better with time. Simon himself is evidence of that chance. It has already managed to make what could be classified as a "complete" person. And if you kill it, Simon's going to be the last "complete" person it managed to bring back.

[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

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Everyone has their favorite cousin; for you, it's Sabrina.

A year younger than you, she shines brighter than any star. Whenever Aunt came to visit, the two of you would escape to worlds of your own creation.

In the comfort of your childhood backyard, two pink napkins were laid out, creating the perfect setting for a whimsical tea party. Cookies and toy cups waited on the makeshift tables. She would always wear her little crown that she never forgot to bring, and you would eagerly gather your beloved stuffed animals to join the celebration as additional guests.

Born to a single teenage mother—who, in Mother's eyes, was the height of irresponsibility, “unfit” for motherhood—Sabrina was forever shrouded in your mother's harsh judgment that "the apple doesn't fall far from the tree." That she would follow in her mother's footsteps, and it wouldn't be so surprising.

But Sabrina was far from the “troubled child,” grew into a girl warmer than the summer sun, kinder than the gentle grace of spring.

Sabrina was your favorite cousin, the one you wished could maintain the kind of closeness you shared during your youth. However, just as everything good in your life, fate always had a way of destroying it.

When Sabrina’s mother married a kind, steady man after years, it was as if a switch flipped inside Mother. Gone was any goodness she had shown to her sister and Sabrina. Any invitation from Sabrina’s mom was met with excuses—"we were too busy,” “it wasn’t a good time.” Lies, more lies. The real reason was far more simple: it was the bitter, green-eyed jealousy.

Mother always did crave pity and attention from others. But the pity she received from family after Father left wasn’t the kind she wanted.

It symbolizes her failure—now, a single mother struggling when her sister thrived with her loving husband and another baby on the way. And when Sabrina’s stepfather agreed to pay for Sabrina to start taking ballet classes like you, Mother took it as competition.

She had made ballet your personal hell.

While Mother brags about your ballet success, flaunting ribbons and reviews, her pride has a price behind closed doors. Nothing is enough to satisfy her, and the standards she holds for you reach for the impossible. Every competition is followed by a barrage of criticism—you could have placed higher, pointed your toes more.

Third place? "You’re wasting my money, girl." Second place earns you a dismissive "Second only means you’re second best." Even first place yields her saying, "Don’t get a big head over a stupid ribbon. It doesn't mean you're the best; it just means everyone else was worse."

Just as everything is good in your life, fate always has a way of destroying it.

(Or is it your mother?)

The old, naïve part of your mind argues that she's doing this for your own good. After all, diamonds aren’t made without pressure—a familiar refrain she repeats every time you beg her to stop, every time you sob so intensely that you struggle to breathe, feeling like a sacrificial lamb. And every time, she just watches in detached observation, with the slight upturn of her lips like a scientist admiring the results of her own making. Like a woodcarver appreciating the strokes of her knife.

Like a mother to her daughter.

(Because she's my mother, she should want the best for me, right?)

And that old, naïve part of your brain is still alive, apparently, even after you’ve left home and settled miles away. She's your mother; she must have your best interests at heart, even though the harshest words often come from her mouth.

She only has your future in mind, even if sometimes you wonder if she loves you at all.

The subtle thump of the car against the window jolted you out of your memories, and you opened your heavy eyelids, groggily regaining your bearings. You wiped your dry lips, relieved no drool dripping your chin in your nap. Looking out the window, you could see the trees whizzing by. Beside you, Simon's eyes fixed intently on the empty, straight road ahead.

At first, you had firmly convinced yourself that you wouldn't attend Sabrina's wedding, giving Simon excuses of work obligations and other lies to justify your absence. Then, Henri happens: he decreed the entire week mandatory rest for all dancers—prompted by the high stress level, but it's likely a more... specific case of frustration that pushed him over the edge: a certain ballerina who still danced her Black Swan coda like a flailing, drunken mess.

Finding yourself with an open schedule due to the unexpected break, emptiness now filled your time, leaving ample room for unwanted negative feelings—specifically, guilt. You end up reconsidering everything, even taking a Barbie out of your worn cardboard box from the closet. The doll bore the results of your and Sabrina's "artistic" minds, its hair chopped off and skin adorned with Sharpie tattoos. He responds to the doll's rough state with a sarcastic compliment.

That’s how you ended up on a short road trip with Simon. The man’s long leg stepped on the accelerator as the car continued to speed through the English countryside. Glancing up, the tiny skeleton charm swung gently where it hung, its hollow sockets seeming to stare back at you.

“Are we almost there?” you asked Simon.

At your question, he turns to you, eyes lingering for a moment before redirecting his focus on the road. “Reckon another five minutes, and we’ll be pulling up.” 

You look out the window. More trees; the dense forest seems to go on forever. Finally, a break appears, and up ahead looms the sturdy building you assume is the venue listed on the wedding invitation.

It was a manor, with solid brown brick walls and a three-story structure topped by a roof spanning each wing. Double-paneled doors were flanked by columns and arched windows. All around, emerald grass was cut to perfection, not a single blade out of place. In the center stood a two-tiered fountain, adorned with carvings of little angels spouting water into a circular pool. It was a heartwarming, romantic storybook vision.

Tearing your eyes from the scene, you glance over at Simon in amazement. “You certainly seem to know your way without GPS.” You comment.

He gave a noncommittal grunt, one-handedly turning the steering wheel as he maneuvered the car into an open spot behind a row of others. “Got a good sense o' direction, is all.”

As the rumble of the engine fell silent, you unbuckled your seatbelt but lingered in your seat, not quite ready to exit the safety of the vehicle. Through the window, you searched for distractions to ignore the uneasy flips in your stomach.

Simon reached out to reach the dashboard; you moved back slightly to give him more room. He grabbed for his plain black surgical mask, but your curious gaze landed on something else. A pair of black gloves—each finger had a contrasting white skeleton bone. You leaned in without thinking, drawing them out to inspect closely.

“I see you have a thing for skeleton.”

Simon glanced sideways at you as he hooked his mask over his ears. “Keep things interestin’,” he said lightly, voice muffled by the material. He pressed the wire along the bridge to mold it to the shape of his nose.

Pulling his keys from the ignition switch, he pocketed them with a jingle. Simon pushed open the door and stepped out in one smooth movement. He rounded the front of the car, walking to reach for your door. Pulling the handle to assist your exit, you took a deep breath before accepting his offer and slipping out of the vehicle.

A loud gasp pierced the air, followed by rapid footsteps rushing towards you. You turned your head from the sound of your name being called, finding a familiar face staring back at you. Sabrina. Now, a grown woman, changed from the girl you once knew. She stretched out her arms as she pulled you into a tight hug, blonde curls bouncing with her joyful smile.

“You came!” She cried happily, pulling back to look at you. “I’m so glad you made it!”

You returned her smile, your nerves melting away from her presence alone—the magic Sabrina had on everyone. “I wouldn’t miss your big day,” you told her.

She swept her eyes over you from head to toe appraisingly. “And look at you! So beautiful!” she said, and you were sure it was just the dress you had bought two days ago doing its job.

Sabrina shifted her gaze, and you remembered the companion standing patiently beside you. Her eyes swept over him assessingly, mixed with curiosity and wariness. Same old Sabrina. She glances at you briefly, and you know an introduction is in order.

Drawing a breath, you begin, “Sabrina, this is Simon. He, uh…” Your voice faltered, unsure of what label to use to describe him.

Simon reached out with nonchalant confidence to Sabrina. “Pleasure.”

With a hint of skepticism, Sabrina's lips tested the unfamiliar name, "Simon." Her face contorted as if it tasted bitter. She narrowed her eyes as she noted, “Funny, she has never mentioned you before.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and a chill ran down your spine as you replied, “There just… hasn’t been a good time to bring it up.”

You hoped that your explanation would be enough to divert the attention away from Simon, but it seemed futile. Sabrina was infamous for her stubbornness and overly protective nature, especially when it came to those she cared about. Like a tigress, she fixated a calculating gaze on him, as if preparing to pummel him on the spot if he gave her the slightest reason.

“Right,” she mumbled.

Sabrina made a show of dropping the conversation but felt compelled to ask one more question. “Any particular reason for the mask?” Her tone was sharper now, as if daring Simon to answer her.

Hastily, you jumped in. “He’s just feeling under the weather, doesn’t want to spread his cold.” It was a stupid lie, and you knew it, but Sabrina tilted her head in faux consideration.

“How thoughtful.” She commented, suspicion lingering at the edges. Hardening her eyes once more, she gave Simon a subtle threat. “You better take good care of this one.”

“Always.” Simon replied, calm and sure.

Satisfied, Sabrina’s expression switched like flickering sunlight. Clapping her hands in excitement, she announced, “Alright, time to meet Andrew and the others! And I’ll show you to your room!”

With that, she spun on her heels and marched toward the door, her long skirt swirling. Simon and you followed after her at a more sedate pace. Your heart rate slowed in relief that the confrontation was over.

Glancing at Simon, you grimaced, muttering a hushed “Sorry about her.”

Simon says nothing, depriving you of the answer, and you thought this was his way of punishing you for the excessive protectiveness of your cousin. He had driven a considerable distance to accompany you to a wedding of someone he didn’t even know, only to be met with suspicion and unwarranted scrutiny by Sabrina, then tasked with the responsibility of "taking care" of you, despite not even being your boyfriend.

However, in stark contrast to your feelings, Simon seemed to brush off the situation with nonchalance. The slight lift of his black mask and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes clearly indicated a smile hidden beneath it. There was no offense taken.

As you emerged outside the back of the manor, bright sunlight made you blink to adjust. When your blurry eyes cleared, a beautiful scene was laid out before you.

In the wide green field stood a picturesque wedding arch, still bare of the decorations that would soon adorn it. Nearby, tables draped in crisp white linens were set where groups mingled, laughing. Some were busy gossiping and enjoying the buffet; some were occupied in a croquet match.

Sabrina chuckled beside you. “They’re trying to recreate a Bridgerton scene but clearly failing miserably.” At her comment, you smiled too, admiring the carefree warmth pervading the atmosphere.

Gesturing wide, Sabrina said, “Help yourself to the buffet over there, and tea or coffee if you’d like. Oh, and this is Andrew, my fiancé!”

A tall, handsome man approached and pressed a kiss to Sabrina’s cheek. She bloomed with a rosy blush as she beamed up at him. “Babe, this is (Y/N) – you know, the cousin I’ve always told you about, my sister from another mother!” She gushed.

Her sweet description of you stirred a smile in your heart. You turned to Andrew, accepting his handshake. “It's wonderful to meet you. Sabrina talks about you all the time,” he says.

“And this is Simon. He came with (Y/N).”

Andrew reached out to offer a new handshake with Simon. “We're glad to have you both. Please, make yourselves at home.”

Giving a nod, Simon took his hand. “Appreciate the welcome, mate.” He replied.

“Oh my God!”

A high-pitched, sharp voice pierces the air, shattering the calm. Your head pivots, and you see your aunt making her way towards you, her arms stretched out in a gesture much like how Sabrina had welcomed you earlier. The embrace she gives you is as warm and smothering as you remember. Drawing back, she sweeps her teary eyes over you. “Look at you! You’ve grown into such a beauty!”

"Definitely," Sabrina chimes in, seconding her mother.

“It’s lovely to see you too, Auntie Joyce.” You replied, smiling at her.

Joyce pinched your cheek lightly before directing her attention past you, eyes widening in surprise. “And who is this?” she asked, gaze landing on Simon with curiosity. Before you could introduce him, she gasped even louder and glared at you as if she had just realized something big. “Why, he must be your boyfriend!”

Your heart leapt at your aunt's bold insinuation. Joyce didn't bother waiting for your confirmation before enveloping Simon in a tight hug. His shoulders tensed, and he looked confused—his hands hovering awkwardly, unsure of how to reciprocate.

Luckily, the ordeal wasn't prolonged, and your aunt finally retreated, not forgetting, of course, to give his bicep an extra appreciative squeeze. 

“Oh,” she chuckled, “you're quite the fit one, aren't you?”

“Mom, please!” Sabrina groaned, shaking her head at her mother’s antics.

Joyce dismissed her daughter's protests with a playful wave of her hand, saying, "Oh, come now, relax! It's a wedding, not a funeral." She positioned herself between you and Simon, slipping her arms through each of yours to guide you both forward.

“Just look at this place,” Joyce continued, her voice filled with admiration. “Isn’t it stunning? Sabrina had such brilliant ideas, she has a real eye for these things. Just wanted everything perfect for her and Andrew, they deserve the best.”

The older woman stopped in her tracks. She turned to the two of you, looking at you both in turn, hazel eyes filled with sincerity. Grasping each of your hands in hers, she hosted a warm, meaningful smile on her face.

“Mark my words, it’ll be your turn before you know it.”

The well-intentioned tone in your aunt's words was apparent. Auntie Joyce had always been sentimental, wearing her heart on her sleeve and never hesitating to express her thoughts. Yet you couldn't help but think that now, her words seemed misplaced—directed at the wrong people. After all, you and Simon weren't even dating, but rather just two people seeking each other's benefits and comfort. The concept of love seemed incredibly distant, and her trying to cling it to you felt like staining purity with sin.

Instead of imagining your own wedding, you feel panic building in your fingertips. You can hear your heartbeat—the ringing in your ears.

What does Simon think of the implications? He’s only here to accompany you, to make the anxiety easier to handle. But now, it’s as if you’ve brought him here for another purpose—a scheming opportunist trying to trap him with suggestions of commitment he’s never agreed to.

Before your thoughts could spiral further, a voice cuts through the chatter—an awfully familiar one, sending your body into instant shock.

“Joyce, where did you run off to?” It called out, tone softer, but your brain is only capable of recalling the rougher version of it.

Joyce waved at the newcomer, ushering her over. “Your daughter’s here with her boyfriend! Can you believe it? Why didn’t you say?”

Boyfriend. She had said it.

In that moment, horror washed over you. Your pulse quickened, racing like a frightened animal. Palms grew slick with perspiration. The world seems tilting off its axis. Something very sour stirred in your stomach, almost triggering you to retch onto the lush, green grass.

Then came the chuckle, low and mocking—and you're already aware of the person who now stands before you.

Slowly, you lift your gaze to meet the eyes so reminiscent of your own, settled in a face that still bears resemblance to the features you’ve inherited from her. She looks the same as the last time you saw her in San Francisco, except for the absence of anger, now replaced by a smile that graces her red lipsticked lips. It's a familiar expression, the exact one she uses whenever she detects hints of your defiance.

(The ghost haunting my dreams, the monster under the bed.)

The woman who had drilled into you time and again: A man’s heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing! Her vengeance against Dad had warped her into keeping the wound wet and bleeding so that it would not have time to heal, so neither of you forgot.

And here you are, betraying everything she had taught you by daring to bring a man into her world. Something crawled up your throat—heavier this time. This wasn’t panic; this was guilt.

When she saw it written on your face—the shame of your transgression—her eyes gleamed with cruel triumph at catching you out.

Auntie Joyce’s question was almost forgotten, but she never forgot. You watched her lips part, and her gaze changed to the one she always wore when she was watching your every move. Ever the watchful one.

“There just hasn’t been an opportunity yet.” She replied smoothly.

In that moment, with her lie not much different from yours for Sabrina, you realized something – that for all the distance between you, mother and daughter were never truly separate. Her poison still coursed through your veins, flowing in every pump of your blood. Every one of your thoughts and actions was controlled by her, whether she was in front of you or not.

Just as everything is good in your life, fate always has a way of destroying it. No, you disagreed.

It was my mother.

@strawberrygato @aprosiacperson @chipsbuttercream @arrozyfrijoles23

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[dduane]

Hello! I was wondering if you’ve shared your ao3 account? Like, have you acknowledged “this account is mine,” or do you keep it personal? Totally respect if you keep it under wraps I just wanted to know if I’m missing something. Hope my wording of this makes sense!

No, it's OK, I get it. You're asking "Have you publicly ID'd a given AO3 account as yours?"

No, and I'm not going to. Because it contains fanfic I've written for pleasure—exactly as I started writing it in my teens—and I have no desire to have that publicly connected with me.

Leaving the usual legal concerns aside (and not being even slightly concerned that a judge would fail to find the fiction "transformational", if the truth came out in a court of law) a significant part of this effort is about answering the question: "What would happen if people read fiction of mine and they didn't know Diane Duane was responsible for it? What would their reaction be?" That urge to discover whether the fiction stands on its own, without the inevitable shadow cast by one’s reputational backstop, still comes up for me in some moods. So when the itch to write fanfic comes up, I scratch it. And all I can say is that, by and large, the results have been satisfying.

Frankly, it's a ton of fun. There's no one to satisfy (at the most immediate level) except me and the local embodiment of the Creative Urge. No one will ever accuse me of "just churning [this] out for more $$$$", because there is no $$$$. And there's room to stretch further and harder than I might normally do in my public work (because there's more forgiveness for failure: and in the arts, I think, failure is absolutely one of the most effective ways to grow). Whatever comes back to me in return for this work—and it is work, some of the hardest I've ever done—is in the form of raw appreciation. So, people, on behalf of my colleagues, let me just say: comment on AO3 fics, yeah? You don't have to be fulsome about it. A word or two will do. And bestow kudos where you may. It's all an AO3 fanfic writer asks.

...And of course some people will say: "Are you off your rocker? You're traditionally published for decades, you have awards, you've been on bestseller lists, how can you not be sure that what you're doing's any good?" ...But you know, no writer is sure all the time. All of us wake up in the middle of the night some time(s), thinking "I'm not sure I've still got it..." and squeezing our eyes shut in terror of future reviews containing the horrible conjecture that Maybe We Never Really Had It To Start With. When you've spent a significant portion of your lifetime making stuff (up) out of nothing, the horrible suspicion that maybe it really has been nothing all the time—I mean, nothing nothing—is unavoidable.

So sometimes some of us want to go out in disguise (and I don't mean paid pseudonymic work: that proves nothing in this particular arena) and see how we fare. I know other traditionally-published writers who've done this—names that would surprise you—and who, by and large, have done it for the same reasons. We are the dark figures, hooded and cloaked, sitting in the shadows of some of the more prominent fandoms that express themselves on AO3; eyes glinting in the firelight, enjoying the reactions to the stories we've got to tell.

It's not bad here, in the shadows. For one thing, you're in a better position to appreciate the figures moving in the light. There's a lot of extraordinary talent on AO3 (and elsewhere in the online fanfic world), sharing stuff with us out of their own hard work and from their own urge toward grace. It's a privilege to read them. (Some of them are better writers than I am. I appreciate them: and comment, and leave kudos, because that's how appreciation is concretely shown. And I take notes.)

Beyond that, there's nothing much to add except that I have no plans to stop. And also: that I think kindly every single day of the very small and exclusive group of people who know "who" I am on AO3, and have kindly kept that data to themselves. Your confidence honors me, friends. May the Work do you honor in return. :)

And now: I owe you all an update, so you'll have to excuse me while I get on with it. :)

[probablyasocialecologist]

While the Cass Review has been presented by the U.K. media, politicians and some prominent doctors as a triumph of objective inquiry, its most controversial recommendations are based on prejudice rather than evidence. Instead of helping young people, the review has caused enormous harm to children and their families, to democratic discourse and to wider principles of scientific endeavour. There is an urgent need to critically examine the actual context and findings of the report. Since its 2020 inception, the Cass Review’s anti-trans credentials have been clear. It explicitly excluded trans people from key roles in research, analysis and oversight of the project, while sidelining most practitioners with experience in trans health care. The project centered and sympathized with anti-trans voices, including professionals who deny the very existence of trans children. Former U.K. minister for women and equalities Kemi Badenoch, who has a history of hostility toward trans people even though her role was to promote equality within the government, boasted that the Cass Review was only possible because of her active involvement. The methodology underpinning the Cass Review has been extensively criticized by medical experts and academics from a range of disciplines. Criticism has focused especially on the effect of bias on the Cass approach, double standards in the interpretation of data, substandard scientific rigor, methodological flaws and a failure to properly substantiate claims. For example, although the existing literature reports a wide range of important benefits of social transition and no credible evidence of harm, the Cass Review cautions against it. The review also dismisses substantial documented benefits of adolescent medical transition as underevidenced while highlighting risks based on evidence of significantly worse quality. A warning about impaired brain maturation, for instance, cites a single, very short speculative paper that in turn rests on one experimental study with female mice. Meanwhile extensive qualitative data and clinical consensus are almost entirely ignored. These issues help explain why the Cass recommendations differ from previous academic reviews and expert guidance from major medical organisations such as the World Professional Association for Transgender Health (WPATH) and the American Academy of Pediatrics. WPATH’s experts themselves highlight the Cass report’s “selective and inconsistent use of evidence,” with recommendations that “often do not follow from the data presented in the systematic reviews.” Leading specialists in transgender medical care from the U.S. and Australia emphasize that “the Review obscures key findings, misrepresents its own data, and is rife with misapplications of the scientific method.” For instance, the Cass report warns that an “exponential change in referrals” to England’s child and adolescent gender clinic during the 2010s is “very much faster than would be expected.” But this increase has not been exponential, and the maximum 5,000 referrals it notes in 2021 represents a very small proportion of the 44,000 trans adolescents in the U.K. estimated from 2021 census data.

7 August 2024

[queer-whatchamacallit]

(SPOILERS) Most of my initial thoughts about season 3 were extremely positive (because I love this show, by god, I love this show), but as I look at it more, I can see what it’s missing, and I can see why people are upset by it

I’m going to look at where The Bear focuses on the past (flashbacks, where characters revert and become their younger, less healthy selves, or where characters’ actions are thoroughly influenced by past trauma), the present (the state things are in, stagnation) and the future (positive change, potential)

Season 1 is primarily focused on the present. The staff slowly learns and changes for the better, but overall they still have 300k hanging over their heads, and there’s only so much that can change under those conditions. There’s pieces here and there that show how Carmy is influenced by his past, both his fucked up family and his time in fucked up kitchens, but he tries his hardest to bottle that up, so we don’t always see a lot. Season 1 is focused on the state of things in the restaurant, seemingly how it is and always will be to some extent. That’s until they find the tomato cans and hope for the future bursts in.

Season 2 focuses on that future. It focuses on change and rebuilding and how everyone is improving themselves. There’s no real focus on how things are because they’re completely changing what that is. There are pieces from the past here too. Claire is some bridge between past and future, tied to his family and who he’s been as well as the type of person he could be (one who lets himself have amusement and enjoyment). Everything and everyone changes until the very end, where Carmy’s stagnation, fear of that positive future, and romanticization of his past self bite him in the ass.

While season 1 is the present and season 2 is the future, there are traces of the other times these seasons.

Season 3 is almost entirely focused on the past. There are entire episodes focused on Carmy’s life at highend restaurants, Tina finding The Beef, and the Ever funeral ties together all these people that changed Carmy. These are beautiful, phenomenal moments, but there isn’t enough time given to the new order of things at the restaurant. There isn’t enough connective tissue. We get one episode that’s entirely focused on how the restaurant is running, but they tried to pack so much in through montages of failures that I don’t feel the stakes of any of them.

I wanted so so much more from Marcus’ story. Carmy’s grief was shown subtly through little moments of running the restaurant, but because they barely showed the restaurant, they barely showed Marcus. I really enjoy the moments we did get (conversations with Carm and with Syd), but it got completely lost when I feel like that should have been a centerpiece. The Bear is a show built on grief (it feels like most characters we meet have suffered a loss somewhat recently), but when another loss is suffered by a main character, it’s set aside for pretty flashbacks.

Carmy was so thoroughly gripped by his past this season that he fully tries to recreate the highend kitchens he used to work for. He is distant and dangerously fast-paced, but he is an excellent chef that creates meals with the best possible option for it.

He’s clearly not sleeping. Through the entire season, he feels as single-minded and self-destructive as he gets during his meltdown points (1x08 and 2x10).

I feel like someone should have stopped him. It feels out character that no one at least tried to. When Carmy’s working on the next day’s menu and shooting down everything Syd suggests, I was waiting for her to bring up “vibrant collaboration dude.” When Carmy was spraying out the alley, I was expecting Cicero to say something like, “Kid, I feel you may not have known this, but you are still on a fuckin budget. Your Orwellian butter can’t possibly be worth what we’re paying for it.” I was waiting the whole season for Sugar to just say, “Go home and get some sleep, Bear.”

If that review was as bad as Carmy’s, “motherfucker” made it out to be and if Cicero shuts down the restaurant, it will have felt preventable.

Sugar having the baby is the only real progression toward the future, and she doesn’t even get a name.

Everything shown of the past is phenomenal and gorgeous and heartbreaking, but there is so little progress made on the path we expected to and were hoping to be going down. I think you can make a season out of the present or the future, but the past doesn’t work quite as well. It has a lot of good, but it’s missing a lot of good too.

[37sommz-archive]

✼. COME TO ITALY | 2015.

CH. 01. NOW PLAYING: dreams by the cranberries [fluff, angst]. ✼.⠀summary: prema saves michaela's career, 2.1k.

MICHAELA WAS NEVER GOOD AT SITTING STILL. Her mother used to scold her for the fidgety nature that seemed to plague the young girl when she would bounce around the doctor’s office or disrupt the teacher during storytime. Her father thought it was a good trait to have as a racer. He found it helpful that his daughter’s endless supply of energy allowed her the chance to spend many hours in their garage fixing up a broken kart or reviewing racing footage from that day. She would bounce around, spurting out corrections for her form, or her pace.

I’m breaking too late… 

too early… 

I’m much too wide…

that was a chance to overtake.

As hyperactive as she was, she was also incredibly self-critical. Her uncle always lamented she was much too focused on being perfect—in action, in talent, and in response—that she often missed her chances to celebrate. Her response was always the same, “For every single mistake I make, they give the same amount of grace to the boys on their 10th.” She reasoned that her perfection would eliminate any opportunity for the males in the sport to discredit her. 

Not that they needed much opportunity.

✼.⠀OCTOBER 20, 2015 — surrey, england

“WE CANNOT GUARANTEE YOU A SEAT FOR NEXT SEASON.” That was what the team principal told her after she fell short of the rookie cup. Second to il Predestinato and his shiny Dutch car. Though Michaela was rarely still, she stood still in that moment. Staring up at the older Englishman’s eyes as he continued on with some excuse she had no interest in hearing. 

It wasn’t until he delivered a short, “The team wishes you the best. We’re sure you’ll have your fair pick of teams to choose from next season.” 

Bullshit. 

She muttered to herself as she turned on her heels to leave without her famously permanent smile to comfort the older man. 

“I outperformed those jerkoffs in every single race,” The words stormed into the silent room as Travis, her uncle and manager, stood across from her.

Approaching her with caution, he gently reached to grab her shoulders, pulling her in for a gentle hug. Meant to calm her, but it did anything but. After a beat, Michaela tore herself away from her uncle, a sigh emitting from his chest signaling to her he was just as frustrated as she was. 

“Travis—” 

He cut her off before she could say what they were both thinking. His eyes slowly tracked her movements as she paced from one end of the room to the other. 

“Mickey, we both know that you outperformed Ryan and Gus. But let’s not pretend we don’t know what’s going on here.” 

She scoffed at that, eyes rolling with angry disbelief as her arms found their way back into their pretzel over her chest. Travis, in his stubborn wisdom, continued speaking, “This is a test—”

“A test?” 

She exclaimed, arms thrown from their place on her chest. Her head shook from one side to the other as Travis watched on with a subtle sympathy for his ambitious niece. 

“They tested me all season.” 

The words peaked in tone, hitting Travis’ ear with a sense of pain he hadn’t seen in the 15-year-old since she was back in Australia breaking the news over the phone that her father had been laid off.

“They gave me the least reliable car, they refused to protect me from the pricks who terrorized me off the track. Then, when I get a win in Germany—” 

Her lips pursed together at the memory, stopping in the middle of her words to keep herself from crying. 

“The only win between the three of us—” 

Failure finds her, tears puddled in the corners of her eyes spill over. 

“The engineers abandon me on the podium to talk strategy with the other two.”

“How many times do I need to prove that I’m just as,” Stopped to correct her words her head shook again, “...better than the boys?”

It’s Travis’ turn to fold his arms over each other. His head fell back against the door that stood behind his frame, too pained to watch Michaela fight to hold back the tears that kept flowing down the sides of her face. Their lips equally pursed as the silence filled the room once again.

This was what most of their conversations ventured into. That question of being enough tortured both of them, for admittedly different reasons, but the toll of it weighed upon their shoulders the same. It had been a question Michaela frequently asked her uncle, usually in jest, though revealing the depth of her insecurities just the same. 

They both knew Travis would eventually have to offer her an answer. 

One definitive so she would stop asking. 

But Michaela would be lying if she tried to act as if she was naively unaware of the answer Travis fought back every time the question was posed. 

She knew the answer was never. 

She knew the answer would destroy her if confirmed by the one person who believed she was better than the boys. She knew the answer would tear down every step forward she took in the name of chasing the success she so desperately craved to taste. 

So Travis didn’t answer. Neither of them was sure he ever would.

Instead, with his head pressed against the hardwood behind him, he offered up a solution. As he always did.

“We’ll call around in the morning like we always do. We’ll use every trick, every piece of leverage we have. I’m going to get you that seat. Doesn’t matter where, doesn’t matter how.”

When Michaela didn’t respond, his head broke away from its hold tipped back. His eyes met hers searching endlessly for a sliver of hope in her clouded brown eyes. The same eyes she shared with his older brother. 

“C’mon Mickey—” He coaxed in an attempt to draw an emotion out of the teenager who stood before him. Any emotion would do in that moment. “I’ll make it happen. You believe me? Right?”

It must have been nearly a minute before she broke the staring contest she held over him. She shrugged her shoulders, arms folded over to offer a sense of comfort to her pained self. 

“Yes?” Travis pushed once more, eyebrows raised in a way that reminded her of her father’s own instinctive heroism.

“Yeah.”

A nod was all he needed to cross the space over to her. With a shake of her shoulders, Michaela released the smallest of giggles. His paler hand ruffled at her curly hair, a move to diffuse the tension that hung between the two family members. 

“Right,” He exhaled as his hand retreated to its place. “Let’s get out of this shithole.”

✼.⠀NOVEMBER 05, 2015 — london, england

“In a post to her blog, Susie Wolff has announced her formal retirement from Formula One.”

-

“The prospect of a female driver on the grid.”

-

“The events at the start of this year and the current environment in F1 the way it is, it isn't going to happen."

-

IN THE FEW WEEKS SINCE HER DROP FROM JAGONYA, MICHAELA HAD NOT LEFT HER RACING SIMULATOR IF NOT TO EAT OR SLEEP. The TV directly to her left was left on Sky Sports, news within the racing world kept her both alert and melancholy.

Paradoxically, it worried Travis, and his wife, just as much as it reassured them. The duality of the feeling pulled at their emotions as they witnessed the extent of Michaela’s worries that she wasn’t—and couldn’t be—as good as the boys. That’s what most of her hyperactivity came down to. At least in their eyes.

“Michaela, love.” 

Bea’s words were as gentle as ever given the depths of her concern for the teenager. Her eyes caught the end of Michaela’s racing journal as it perched on the edge of her desk. Battered from her obsessive writings, Bea picked it up carefully to place it down carefully. 

As she turned back to her niece, Michaela’s tired eyes stared up at her, hands still gripped at the wheel of her simulator with the screen paused in wait. 

“It’s been ages since you got up.”

With a softness, her eyes conveyed the true weight behind her words. Michaela was more than aware her obsession with perfection worried her aunt, though she was unwilling to give it up. A relaxed sigh left her mouth as she rose from her chair, the simulator shutting down as Bea observed from her stance just across the room.

“Come eat, Travis has news.”

The casual words stunned Michaela more than she would be willing to relate. A knowing smile pulled at the corners of Bea’s mouth before she shrugged calmly. 

“I’m not sure what it’s about, but he was quite insistent you come down.”

Those words were all it took before Michaela rushed down the stairs, her hair flying behind her in a messy haze of brown and blonde curls, bouncing against the gravity of her run.

“Mickey?”

Travis’ voice beamed with excitement as he caught the attention of his excited niece. 

“We have a guest,” His head shook with a laugh. “Best behavior?” His pinky finger reached for Michaela’s own, an ill-fated attempt to calm her down before the unnamed guest presumably seated in their living room. 

A clear of her throat and a twist of their pinkies and Travis led her to the living room.

A full head of dark hair turned to face the overzealous 15-year-old clothed in a raggedy Lightning McQueen t-shirt. With a laugh, he stood to attention, and a hand reached out to shake hers. 

“René Rosin,” She exhaled with a breathiness that conveyed her amazement. A smile graced his features at her recognition, sure his decision had been reassured in that moment.

“I heard the Brits left you without a seat for next year.”

“Can you imagine?” She muttered, her smile never faltered despite her uncle’s clearance of his throat as a reminder of her ‘best behavior’ promise from just moments before.

“Sorry, I’m really—” 

She cut herself off as René raised a hand to signal he graced the comment. 

“When I found out, I can admit I was shocked beyond belief.” 

The team principal’s Italian accent bled beautifully into his words. Michaela almost found herself distracted by the flourishes he added to the end of his sentences as she hung on to every word he expressed to her. 

“How has your break been?”

Caught off guard by the question, Michaela shrugged her shoulders. With a nervous bite of her lip—terrified and in awe of the principal’s appearance in her living room—she chose her words wisely. 

“Unfulfilling. I miss the track.”

With a nod of his head, René exchanged a knowing glance with Travis who gently chuckled at his niece’s criticalness. 

Michaela’s mind spun at a mile a minute, an infinite number of scenarios of René’s next words ran through her consciousness. Hope was tussled with paranoia at the back of her mind. Hoping that this would be her moment of redemption but paranoid she would be put in her place once more. 

They got someone to convince me to give up.

The thought displaced her for a moment before she snapped back into reality. Her teeth chewed at the inside of her mouth and her fingers pressed into her palms. Both were nervous habits that didn’t escape Travis and Bea’s attention though they exchanged subtle smiles that completely escaped Michaela. With a gentle tap on her shoulder, Travis coaxed Michaela to stop her movement. The action reminded her to exist in the moment before her.

“How soon would you like to be back? Racing?” 

Michaela didn’t need the clarification he offered before she burst with attention.

“Tomorrow—today—I… I don’t care when. Just as soon as possible.” 

René chuckled again at her eagerness. With a clap of his hands that startled Michaela as much as it excited her, René cleared his throat.

“Then tomorrow, I’ll see you in Veneto.”

Michaela tilted her head in confusion, feeling as if she had missed a few words before the statement. 

“Sorry,” She stammered, paranoia crept back into her. “What—what do you mean? V-Veneto?”

His smile did little to calm her until his response accomplished the mission instead.

“How would you like to race for Prema in GP2?”

✼. view:⠀masterlist⠀⸻⠀join the taglist⠀⸻⠀request. ✼. taglist:⠀@cha-hot @certifiedlesbianbaddie @nichmeddar @d3kstar @thewannabewriter

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #38 – Play It As It Lays by Joan Didion

Didion is one of those canonical authors I always feel like I should already have read at some point (isn’t that what high school English class was supposed to be for). Of course this was a very vague feeling, and not attached to a single scrap of actual information about her and her work beyond the general time period and cultural milieu – so I grabbed this from the library and started it entirely blind (partially my own fault for skipping the introduction by a different and much worse author tbf). Fascinating book, artistically successful and emotionally affective, but not one I’m able to say I really found enjoyable, or even necessarily beautiful (it’s no Giovanni’s Room, to compare another bit of canonical latter-20th century high literature).

The book follows Maria Wyeth, an (increasingly former) actress in 1960s Hollywood, through her slow decline from up and coming starlet and wife of a prestigious young director to an enforced retirement as an isolated upscale sanitarium/hospital resort. Which is hardly a spoiler – the book starts at the end and jumps through the timeline freely, and in any case the whole thing feels telegraphed to the point of inevitability. Maria’s life in LA is contrasted with how she grew up in a tiny desert town in Nevada, so small it at some point stopped existing, and in the process more or less gives you the narrative of her life.

Which is as close to a plot as the book has, really. Maria and her internal monologue are the near-sole focus, and her view of the outside world and what’s happening around her basically always says more about her than the world. Watching Maria’s life falls apart really is watching a car crash in slow motion – you’re never really surprised at any point, but the shearing metal and flesh are hard to look away from.

The book’s very much capital-l Literature, here meaning that the style and prose is at least half the reason to read the book. The story’s told through short vignettes (I’m not sure a singe chapter was more than ten pages, whereas the vast majority were two or three) and the deliberate, generous use of white space, both figurative and literal. Maria is pretty relentless in her self-deception and lack of self-awareness, and in any case is quiet elusive and vague with descriptions of people and events – reading between the lines is quite necessary. This overall really does work for me - the imagery is vivid and memorable, and Maria’s head is a compelling and believable place to be.

It’s also just intolerable. I have no particular issue with deeply unsympathetic, tragically unselfaware, or wince-inducingly self-destructive characters, but Maria sure is all three of those to a degree I rarely see. More than that, she is just profoundly passive. It is, for me at least, far easier to be invested in operatic delusion and hubris leading to ruination than a just resolutely thoughtless and pettily cruel person letting her life rot around her. Which is a failure of literary empathy on my part, probably, but did make this a somewhat frustrating book to read. You’re left want to scream at Maria to just do something (anything!) that she isn’t led to by people around her like an ornery goat to water.

This is probably exacerbated by the supporting cast. Who are all very much portrayed as hopeless, clueless gamblers and unprincipled, hypocritical Hollywood decadents,, absolutely – but despite that, keep trying to reach out and offer her lifelines or support. Which is mostly surprising because she might literally not say a single kind word to another human being in the entire book, is relentlessly caustic in her internal monologue, and sure isn’t doing favours or advancing the career of anybody. The real tension of the book ends up not being whether or not she’ll destroy her life and more how long before everyone around her just lets her.

It’s a blisteringly cynical novel overall, really – both in its portrayal of individual characters and of society as a whole. I joked while reading it that it felt like American Psycho without a Patrick Bateman, and while that’s a bit too far – everyone’s still very recognizably human, most of whom do care about at least a few things besides status symbols and dick measuring contests – but the portrayals of Hollywood and Wall Street certainly feel like they rhyme.

Though the implicit politics of that cynicism do feel do feel very different here. Very possibly because the back cover called it something like ‘a blistering satire of the excesses of the ‘60s’ (paraphrasing from memory), but the book definitely ended up feeling very (socially) conservative, full of worries about broken families and marriages of convenience and just generally decadence. The whole plot where Maria gets a motel-room abortion to deal with the consequences of her affair which almost kills her, sends her spiralling into months of total, life-ruining depression, and destroys her relationship with both her husband and her paramour feels like something you’d only see coming out today in explicit pro-life propaganda, for example; certainly it’s a trope I’ve seen complained about more than (until now) I’ve ever actually seen done. The fact that Maria’s foremost redeeming feature is always her love for and desire to be with her (disabled and permanently hospitalized for vague reasons), and that the climax of the book is a suicide directly caused by infidelity, also. None of which should exactly be surprising, really – a book almost as old as my parents has dated opinions on social issues! - but for some reason I always expect canonical authors to have been free-wheeling libertines and bohemians.

Speaking of being written nearly sixty years ago – the time capsule quality of this book is positively fascinating. Which I say whenever I read something from before the millennium, but still – the ‘60s are still so profoundly mythologized I do love the chance to see anything written about them at the time, if only for ‘the past as a foreign country’ tourism reasons. The Hollywood of exploration, drug abuse, meaningless sex, vicious gossip and every combination of the above feels like it could almost be written about today, right up until the point where an easy divorce means finding an amenable judge and finding a witness to corroborate the husband’s admission of wanton emotional abuse (which becomes a stark reminder of how horrifying even a historical five minutes ago was when you consider what happens if you can’t meet any of those conditions). The illegal abortions, the utterly casual homophobia, the auteur theory being a hot new thing, the cult of the open road. It all adds up to an interesting effect.

Speaking of the cult of the open road – Maria’s only real sense of peace, happiness and self-control in the entire book is when she’s spending all day cruising the highway at dangerous speeds just for the sake of it, without itinerary or destination. No real coherent point to make, just that there’s something truly and incredibly American about that? The descriptions of the Nevada desert and highways, too.

But yeah, an expertly written novel that’s positively lovely in places (the opening monologue is near-sublime, for example), but not one that really awed or oved me the way some other literature has.